


Want and Need

by lovetincture



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, Post-Hell Dean Winchester, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23611789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: It’s not that he wants to die, exactly. Suicide is an act of will, and he’s got too much fuck-you for that. He doesn’t have a death wish. Doesn’t have any wishes at all, as a matter of fact, and that’s the rub, isn’t it?Dean needs something. He probably doesn't need this, but when has that ever stopped him before?
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 9
Kudos: 130





	Want and Need

It’s not that he wants to die, exactly. Suicide is an act of will, and he’s got too much fuck-you for that. He doesn’t have a death wish. Doesn’t have any wishes at all, as a matter of fact, and that’s the rub, isn’t it?

Because he doesn’t want to die, but that doesn’t mean he wants to live. Cloistered in between an ever-rotating cast of walls, hamstrung between damp sheets sweated through in the night, he twists and turns like a spitted pig. The sheets twine around his neck, and it feels like choking—he still remembers it from the pit, a million ways to choke, strangle, suffocate. 

The stiff, overwashed blankets smell like mildew in that way no amount of laundering will cure, smell like dryers left to run too long, sun-bleached without the sun. Tired, like Dean is tired.

It’s not like he wants to die.

Sammy sleeps in the next bed over, a scant four feet between them. Dean could get up. He could walk over there and touch him, and it’s only the knowledge that he  _ could _ that keeps him from actually doing it. He stays put. He listens for the rhythmic rise and fall of Sam’s breath—listens real hard, and even still it’s hard to hear above the drone of the air conditioner in the corner.

He untangles himself, loosens the noose around his neck, stares up at the ceiling—or at least the fuzzy, indeterminate grey above his head—and breathes. He waits until he’s had his fill. Until he’s convinced that Sam is alive and well and likely to stay that way for the foreseeable future, dead to the world in the bed beside him, before he gets up to face down the rest of the night, starting with a shower.

He’s tired. Bone-weary straight down to his soul.

It takes him a second to work out the controls of the shower through his stupor. It’s briefly disorienting, this bathroom the same as so many others—different yet still the same, a variation on a theme. He turns the water as hot as it’ll go, forgoing the cold knob. He stands at the edge of the tub, swaying on his feet he’s that tired. He waits until it’s good and hot, until the bathroom is fogged up with steam before getting in.

It’s hot enough to scald his skin. He pinks up like a lobster and it  _ hurts, _ but he lets it happen. He stands there and takes it, more awake now but not by much.

Sam is awake when Dean steps out of the bathroom, weak light and a plume of steam behind him. He’d know it even without being able to see the glitter of open eyes in the dark, the lucent gloam turning Sam into a jungle predator lying in wait.

“You breathe different when you’re awake, you know.” Dean says. It’s the first word either of them have spoken in hours. Dean’s surprised he said anything at all.

“Not trying to hide it,” Sam says, voice rough around the edges, sleep clinging to it still but rapidly falling away only to be replaced by an awful, keen awareness.

“Go back to bed.”

“You first.”

Dean runs the towel through his hair one more time before balling it up and tossing it into the corner. The darkness swallows it up immediately, blinking it out of existence. He’ll regret that in the morning when it smells like mildew, just like the sheets, just like his clothes, but he can’t bring himself to care just now.

“Give it a rest,” Dean says. “For once. Just for one night.”

And Sam must hear something, some note of strain, some  _ thing _ in his voice, because he shuts up and leaves it alone.

Dean’s almost sorry for it because instead of the relief he’d wanted, he’s left with the staggering silence. With guilt because he can  _ feel _ the weight of Sam’s worry, confusion and annoyance and worst of all the belief that he somehow  _ knows. _

He doesn’t know.

“Go to bed,” Dean says again, and he crawls into bed himself.

This time the silence is almost welcome. He lets it swallow him down and sinks into a deep, fitful sleep. If he dreams, he doesn’t remember it in the morning.

* * *

Dean doesn’t have a death wish. It’s not like he’s being careless on purpose. If  _ careful _ just seems like more trouble than it’s worth, if he can tell that it’s kind of fucking stupid in their line of work anyway, well. That’s just common sense. It’s practical.

Sam is mad at him or something. Again. But when isn’t Sam mad at him, so he ignores it, turning up the radio until it’s blaring in his ears and Sam is scowling. Sam reaches for the radio to turn it down, and Dean slaps his hand away.

Sam stares at him for a second, trying to work something out. A muscle in Dean’s jaw twitches, and he stares resolutely ahead and concentrates on the road. He very purposely doesn’t look. 

Eventually Sam gives up. He turns away, looks out the window probably glaring at the glass, and Dean can’t  _ see  _ it, but he knows that look is there, and it’s giving him a headache.

The ride back to the hotel takes a small eternity. Dean’s shoulder is burning where the creature took a chunk out of him. He winces every time he makes a right turn.

Sam is out the car like a shot as soon as they stop, slamming the door behind him. He doesn’t wait for Dean. Dean watches him in the rearview mirror, watches him march back to their room, straight-backed as a soldier, until he walks clean out of the sunlight and the shadows swallow him up.

Dean rests his head on the steering wheel, just for a second. He thinks about staying in the car and driving—to the next bar, the next town, fuck it. He thinks about it. It’s not just the yawning nothing in his wallet that stops him.

He slams the car door and shakes his head. Sam is in a mood, but at least that means they won’t have to talk about it.

Inside, the room is as dim as he remembers it, curtains drawn shut against the light that edges golden around the corners. He has time to put down the car keys. They clatter against the dresser, and then Sam is in his space, crowding up against him until he can feel the cool plaster of the wall against his back.

He shoves back on instinct. “What’s your problem?”

“What’s yours?” He pushes and pushes until Dean’s flat against the wall and his teeth are bared. “You’ve been acting like a goddamn zombie for weeks.”

“Not your problem, Sam.”

“That wendigo tonight? Almost  _ sliced you open, _ so yeah, I’d say it kind of is. What’s with you?”

“Will you just fucking lay off?” Dean snarls. He looks at Sam who looks at him, stunned, and all of Dean’s beautiful, vital rage drains off in an instant. “Nothing’s with me,” he says, as tired as he feels. “Just—leave it alone, okay?”

Sam doesn’t say okay. He doesn’t say anything, just watches Dean with those eyes, calculating and quiet.

Dean pushes his way past, and Sam lets him go. He steps into the bathroom and strips off his shirt with a wince. The fabric’s started to stick to him in places, matted through with dried gore. He grunts and turns to get a good look at the place where the wendigo got him. It’s mostly clotted over now, oozing sluggishly as he cracks the scab with his craning. He runs a washcloth under cool water and wipes at the edges, hissing at the first touch of moisture on the wound.

Sam materializes in the doorway. He doesn’t ask, just plucks the washcloth out of Dean’s hands and takes over. Dean doesn’t fight him. He wraps his fingers around the edge of the counter and hangs his head. Sam’s neither rough nor overly gentle as he sponges the blood away. He rinses the cloth in the sink, wringing it until the water flows pink. Dean watches it spiral around the drain. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes.

“You should be more careful,” Sam says, and it startles a bone-rattle laugh from Dean.

“You’re one to talk.”

Sam snorts, the faintest edge of a laugh. It disappears faster than he could have hoped. Sam gets him cleaned up, stitched shut and bandaged, and his brows only crease slightly when Dean rolls his shoulders in a way that’s likely to rip his new stitches. It’s going to hurt like a bitch in the morning, that much he can tell.

Sam tosses the washcloth in the sink, drying his hands on the towel draped over the shower.

“You can talk to me, you know.”

He doesn’t stick around to hear the answer, the denial perched right on the tip of Dean’s tongue,  _ not here for chick flick moments, Sammy. _ He doesn’t bother to give Dean a patronizing, cheer-up-you-can-do-it smile, the motivational pep talk smile that cracks a little round the edges. 

He just leaves, hand on the doorknob and he closes the door behind him.

Dean’s left staring at the door behind him, staring at the sink tinted pink with his blood, staring at his own reflection in the mirror.

“Man, you fucked up.”

He doesn’t know if he’s saying it to his reflection or if the man in the mirror is saying it to him. Either way, he looks like shit.

* * *

He crawls all the way into a bottle and doesn’t come out for days.

Sam lets it happen, doesn’t say much of anything. They watch old movies and reruns of Law and Order on tv. Dean drinks beer until he switches to whiskey.

It’s comfortable, the warmth outside heating the room until it’s just this side of too hot. The little window AC does its best, but it’s no match for the summer sun. It’s fine. Dean prefers it this way. The cold hasn’t sat right with him since he’d gotten back from the pit. Even before, he’d never been much of a fan.

Sam scoffs when a guy in the movie fails to scale a wall. He stands at the bottom of the chainlink staring dumbly up at a woman who tells him to run. He doesn’t. He just stands there and lets the dogs have him, and it sends a chill straight down to Dean’s core.

“He could have made it,” Sam says, gesturing at the screen. “What is that wall, like ten feet high? He could’ve jumped and been halfway up.” He swigs the last of the beer into his mouth and sets the empty bottle on the nightstand. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, easy and careless, totally unselfconscious and Dean just watches him.

“What?” Sam asks, growing itchy with the feeling of Dean’s intent gaze against the side of his face.

“Nothing,” Dean says, but it takes him a while to peel his eyes away and turn his attention back to the tv.

* * *

Dean wakes in the night with something heavy pressing down on him. His first instinct is  _ fight. _ His first instinct is  _ gun. _ He kicks his knee up and hits something soft and fleshy.

The soft grunt that results is one he recognizes. It’s only Sam. Sam, which means  _ not a threat, _ all evidence to the contrary.

Sam on top of him, Sam pressing down, every point of contact between them hotter than it should be. Sam is warm as a furnace, radiating heat that sears directly into Dean’s skin everywhere their bodies meet—arms pressing Dean’s down above his head, legs overlaid across his own, hips tilted carefully away but that barrel chest pressing down on Dean’s until he can barely breathe, and when did Sam get to be about three hundred pounds, anyway?

He doesn’t tell Sam to get off, though. No, not that.

“What’re you doing, Sammy?” he asks instead. It sounds obscene whispered in the dark.

A  _ noise _ falls out of Sam’s mouth, something wounded and wanting, and Dean’s brain is still lagging behind, still half-asleep and trying to fit that sound against the image of his brother.

_ “Dean.” _

He says it again, name falling on a moan, landing in every dark place between them.

Sam’s fingers twine around his, holding him tight.

_ We’re holding hands, _ he thinks dumbly. And weirdly enough, that’s the thing that does it. The thing that kicks his brain into gear, and he realizes what this is—that these are Sam’s hips butted against his, the thick bulge of Sam’s erection pushing into his thigh. Sam’s breath against the side of his neck, panting hot and thick and he wonders how long Sam’s wanted this. How long he’s laid in the next bed thinking of this, how long he’d waited before stealing into Dean’s sheets in the middle of the night.

In an instant, Dean recontextualizes every eye roll, every bitchy soundbite, every look and touch and glance, because oh. This is— 

“Is this it? Is this what you need, Dean?”

And no. It isn’t. It really, really isn’t, but the sickness twisting in his gut feels a lot like something else—feels a lot like  _ anything, _ actually, so it’s easy to allow it. Easier than doing anything else to welcome it, tipping his head back and opening his mouth to let Sam lick his way inside. 

Sam moans into his mouth, relief blooming like a palpable thing between them, and Dean sucks on his tongue because what else is he supposed to do?

It drives Sammy wild, gets him bucking against Dean who isn’t hard but getting there. Sam’s alive beneath him, and isn’t that what he wants? Isn’t that his sole mission in life, and if he can’t have it, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

Isn’t this a way to keep him close?

Sam says his name again. He puts his lips to Dean’s throat, opens his mouth and sucks hard enough to raise a livid bruise. Dean arches off the bed, gasping and swearing and  _ fuck. _

His thoughts skitter away like marbles.

“There you go, that’s it.”

And Dean doesn’t know who this confident person is, this man in his bed, but Sam whispers soothing nothings to him, praise that lights him up and makes his face burn red, and he thanks fuck that they’re doing this in the dark.

Sam worries at the hickey he’s made until it  _ hurts, _ then he kisses the spot, laving it with his tongue before biting down hard. Dean chokes on a strangled yell and only crushes Sam closer.

“I’ve got you. Hey, I’ve got you. It’s okay,” Sam says, and fuck he needs to stop talking.

It  _ isn’t. _ It isn’t because his baby brother is working him over like a pro, pushing every button he’s got, and he thinks Dad is probably rolling in his grave. But fuck if Sammy isn’t hurting him just right, scraping his teeth over the side of Dean’s hip as he holds him down, arm like an iron bar across his belly, and Dean could fight him off. He could.

He has half a mind to try it just to see if Sam would fight, if he’d shove Dean down on the bed and make him take it, and just the thought of it sends a jolt of sick-hot lust through him. He’s so hard it nearly hurts.

And then his mind short circuits, whiting out entirely as Sam’s breath ghosts across his cock. 

His voice takes on a mind of its own. His hands tangle in Sam’s hair, holding him fast, and he’s babbling. “Yes, Sammy, Sammy, fuck.”

His brother’s lips are around his dick, mouth hot and wet and filthy as hell, and it’s all over embarrassingly quickly.

* * *

Sam doesn’t go back to his bed, after. He falls asleep sprawled beside Dean, arm heavy as a stone across his chest, and there’s a joke here somewhere. He can’t tell if it’s funny.

His nose itches, and there’s a heavy ache settling into his muscles. He’ll feel it in the morning. He feels… sick. Sick and twisted, like he just crossed the last great divide, given up one more part of himself that made him  _ human. _

Alistair would think this was a great joke.

Dean puts it out of his mind. He sighs and settles in for the night. He pushes the hair back from Sam’s eyes and leaves it there, closing his eyes and willing sleep to come.

It’s not like he has anywhere else to go.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/lovetincture).


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